


Bang, Crash, Pow!

by Kisleth, Ringshadow



Series: The Kingfisher and His Marksman [3]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Action, BAMF Phil Coulson, BAMFs, Get Together, M/M, Pre-Canon, Pre-Movie, Smut, Violence, Violence Fetish, alter ego
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-25
Updated: 2013-02-04
Packaged: 2017-11-26 20:41:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/654206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kisleth/pseuds/Kisleth, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ringshadow/pseuds/Ringshadow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not often that Clint gets the okay to kill anyone not on his side on an op. It's even less often that Phil is able to fight along side him. As a matter of fact, it's their first time like this, fighting back to back.</p><p>And ops tonight seem to be a double header too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This may or may not be triggery so I'll be blunt. They kill a lot of people and get so turned on by it that they fuck.
> 
> Also, Phil has a alternative persona, a mantle that he dons with his black leather gloves to go from calm and collected Coulson to the bloodthirsty Kingfisher. His dialogue will be bolded to help show when he is and isn't Kingfisher.
> 
> Also, major props for our amazing beta, [YamiKuro](http://archiveofourown.org/users/YamiKuro) <3

After a while the operations run together, and it doesn’t actually matter who’s catching the bullets. What matters is the constraints of the Op itself. Which targets are green. If they have to restrain and go nonlethal or if lethal responses are allowed, hell if they’re preferred.

And this Op, Coulson and Barton were told all kills were good.

It was one of those ridiculous situations where Coulson felt like his life was being taken out of the pages of a comic book or movie. They’d ended up in a warehouse, shelves and aisles stacked high with pallets and crates, their targets scattered throughout. He was up in the catwalks, a shadow, barely a shadow, the dark suit letting him disappear, hands concealed in gloves, feeling the weight of weaponry and the gnawing of an itch he’d been ignoring far too long.

“Hey. Barton.” He just barely turns his head; Clint’s within his view, walking on top of a row of crates and using bad lighting to his advantage to shadow one of their targets. “I’d like to get in on this if you don’t mind.” His voice was low but the throat mic caught him perfectly.

Clint is absently picking through the crates around him as he tails one of the men. There are all kinds of props and tools for some movie company or other that is on loan to pose as a cover or something… he doesn’t care about the details too much (and they’re so twisted that he got a headache the first time he was told). But there are fake guns and ropes and so many props to misuse. He’s almost giddy at the idea of ramming a rubber chicken down someone’s throat.

He misses the ‘hey’ but ‘Barton’ catches him and he freezes, listening to Coulson. “Sure thing, boss. Lemme herd the sheep an’ ya can drop in an’ crack some heads, yeah? There’s good space ‘round the clothing racks between aisle twelve and row three.” He drops down to the side of the shelves and climbs toward a support. Bracing himself on the edges of an I-beam, he climbs up into the ceiling to scout out who would be the easiest to lure in.

Phil grins and stands up as much as he can on the catwalk, moving toward the location suggested and grinning when he sees Clint pop into the overhead as well. He offers a salute in the other man’s direction, stepping over a railing and grabbing one of the I-beams and swinging to the next catwalk over nimbly.

A few more moves and he’s crouched on his toes, looking down at the clothing racks, amused. A prop house. Just insane. He was waiting for the entire cast of Roger Rabbit to run through. Of course at this point half a dozen Mariachi midgets in bikinis could parade through an operation and Coulson wouldn’t blink.

Wonder if someone had spiked his coffee, yes. Blink, probably not.

“Judging by the outfits here, the cast of Much Ado about Nothing went to a pride parade.” Phil remarks over the mic quietly. “That’s a whole lot of velvet taffeta and feather boas down there.”

“Can we make a net for them out of the boas? Trap them with rainbow feathers?” Clint remarks as he drops a penny that he’d found to attract attention. He doesn’t hide his footsteps so to get more to come after him but… well, there were more unfriendlies than he thought. He counts and the number is starting to get kinda… scary. Scary fun.

He nicks items from shelves to hide on his person to use as unconventional weapons. He can’t find a rubber chicken, but he grabs a very nice looking cane sword for Phil. He’s pretty sure he’s good with one, either way, he thinks it’s hot and just hopes that he can see Phil in action with an arc of blood…

Whoa, getting off topic. He climbs along the side of a shelving unit and accidentally gets ‘caught’. He certainly wasn’t planning on being seen, or shot. Luckily, it’s just a graze and he’s mostly mad that he let himself get hit than actually hurt. “Hey Boss, I hope ya like yer presents.” He quips as he grabs some gaudy pink scarf and wraps his arm as he runs, knotting it. “I got a li’l overzealous, forgive me. I just love ta spoil ya rotten.” He ducks as a shot fires but they missed him so widely that it ricochets off a shelf. Close to the meeting point, so close…

He drops to the ground as he spots the place he picked for Coulson to wait and wheels so hard around that he takes the guy with the gun by surprise when his boot heel juts up into his jaw. He grabs the gun and removes the clip, chucking it up high onto a shelf. Removing ammo and beating the pulp out of everyone sounds like fun.

Phil shakes his head at Barton tossing the clip up high and grabs the catwalk edge, swinging off then just letting go. His weight falls heavily and his aim is true, he comes down right on top of one of the enemies and rides their weight down to a choked cry of pain and a symphony of snaps. He simply steps off and reaches to his belt as he turns and comes up, and a collapsible baton springs to life in his hand. He’s nearly roundhousing it and it catches two more enemies across the face in succession, one going down and the other staggering before dropping. It’s an opening though and he’s on them. His hands grab and twist as he passes, dropping the broken-necked bodies aside.

It’s generally a bad idea to surround Phil Coulson, because that’s exactly where he wants to be once he starts moving, able to go from one blow to the next, make it a move chain, let his reflexes spin up and the adrenaline open up and his inner fire scream. The adversaries that gave chase to Barton have very little idea what hit them, and no chance to figure it out.

A shiver races down Clint’s spine at the snap and crunch of bones. It’s an eerie but lovely sound that never fails to get him excited. He drops to his hands as he kicks the side of a kneecap viciously, his eyes scouring the crowd and spotting the exits and who he’d need to incapacitate to escape. It’s always good to know how to escape. Who knows if someone might not care about all these goons and would set the whole damn place on fire?

He starts mentally going through what he has nicked for weapons when he sees a flash out of the corner of his eye. He dodges, whipping out a handkerchief. He wraps it around the wrist of the passing fist, and turns while yanking down. Clint brings his knee to smash into the man’s face. As his attacker drops, he slams his heel into the back of the man’s neck.

Phil is flying inside, eyes blown black, not even thinking about his movements anymore. There is nothing but the next move in the chain, laying a circle of destruction around himself, eventually getting a pause for breath as the others backs off, leaving him standing in a circle of bodies.

Phil laughs, looking over his shoulder and watching Clint, his grin raw and hungry. **“Oh, are we going for style points?”** He doesn’t even care that his voice has changed, that the mask has cracked and his old persona is writhing just below the surface. He collapses the baton and holsters it back up, and in a move grabs one of the aforementioned feather boas and charges the still backing away enemy. They scatter and he’s on one, using the feather boa as a garotte with enough force he yanks the man over backwards and crushes his throat just before the boa breaks.

Clint’s attention snaps to Phil. He is his superior in this, he is the one he listens to. But… his voice is different and Clint spares a glance. The boa-turned-garrote and the blown pupils make a burning heat flip Clint’s stomach before clenching low in his gut. Okay, that’s just plain _hot_. He is going to have to talk to Phil about this. Or beg him to fuck him against the wall when they’re done. Or both. Both is good.

It’s then that a warehouse tool catches Phil’s eye on the floor, a metal loading hook on a length of rope. He drops and rolls, gunfire peppering the cement in his shadow, and his hand closes on the rope, dodging back into the aisles and getting the coil in one hand, the hook hanging in the other as he prowls back around the corner, starting to spin the heavy hook. The thugs don’t take this approach seriously until the hook is snapped out and up with enough force it digs in under one of their jaws and stays there, Phil’s double-armed yank dragging the gagging man down.

Clint focuses on moving quick and disarming. He can beat the pulp out of people later, he doesn’t want to risk any more gunshot wounds. His bicep burns as he slams the butt of a semi-automatic rifle into someone’s nose. He keeps tossing all ammo high onto shelves, smirking to himself when they land in boxes.

With a flick of a wrist, a knife slides into his palm and he slices the straps of some body armor. He throws it at another adversary’s face as he yanks the first man’s shirt up to blind him. He grabs sleeves and tugs. Tying them together over the man’s hands, he uses his body weight to swing him hard and slam him into a shelving unit. A wooden cane drops from the shelf and he snaps it in half and stabs up from just under the sternum and into his heart.

He spins to the man who he’d thrown the vest at and hooks the handle of the cane into his vest to drag him in. He sees the flash of metal in his hand and doesn’t flinch as the blade slips between the shields in his own armor and into his side. He just grins savagely and breaks the man’s nose with his forehead. He grabs him by the throat and crushes his windpipe as he shoves him back at some others who had been advancing to Phil’s back. There is just not enough room for everyone to attack the two of them at once and it’s really working to their benefit.

Phil sticks to his improvised blunt rope dart, and it’s working well for him. The hook on the end is most of a pound if he’s any judge and he has it spinning around him in graceful unbroken arcs and circles, snapping it back and throwing it back out, the bodies he’s breaking with it only making the rhythm he’s in pause briefly. He’s ignoring the guns because if everyone’s dead no one can shoot them.

That is, of course, why someone out of his range gets several shots off and wings one of his legs. **“Oh FUCK!”** Is the only exclamation he allows himself, weaving the improved rope dart on one arm as he goes for his own gun and returns fire, putting the enemy down before pausing in what he’s doing, taking stock.

Between him and Clint, the enemy seems to have backed off to reassess at this point, so he moves, limping slightly and pulling Clint into an indentation among the wooden crates, covering them from three sides as he rips his pants leg open to assess his wound. Clint almost attacks Phil, but has just enough presence of mind to stop himself. He looks Phil over, taking in his physical condition.

 **“Just a graze. Saw your arm got hit, anything else?”** His voice is still rough as hell, eyes blown solid black and hands shivering slightly as he digs a bandage out of an inner jacket pocket, shifting the rope dart to hang off one of his shoulders. He rips the sanitary cover off the bandage and seals it over his leg wound. A medic could deal with it later, for now they had to keep moving.

Seeing as Phil can take care of it himself, Clint focuses more on that voice and those eyes. He’s more than just a little turned on by it all. The death and the blood and very definitely how the elder man is reacting to the situation.

Oh, he is a very lucky man if Phil is getting as turned on by the violence as he is. He’s half hard and if they take too much longer to finish everyone else off… it would be very difficult to continue walking with a boner in his pants. “‘m good.” His voice is no more than a whisper. He can’t really feel anything that hurts too badly but maybe that’s just the adrenaline covering up for him. Everything is a blur in his head and he can’t quite remember anything over than making others bleed.

A flash of movement at the corner of his eye makes him draw the cane sword close to his body so not to hit Phil. An arc of blood from the draw hits him in the side of his face. His pupils dilate and he turns to the man whose guts are trying to spill and jams the blade up under jaw and into his brain with a savage grin. He glances to Phil but has to look away. God, he wants to kiss him breathless. “C’mon. Break time’s over.”

 _I am a fucking idiot._ That was really Phil’s first thought when Clint mindlessly defends them and gets sprayed with blood, then look at him with black, hot, savage eyes. Oh, he knew that expression. He’d been looking at it in the mirror after operations for years now, only to burn out alone, frustrated and wound up.

He’d been working with Clint how long and he was only now just seeing this?

_Fucking. Idiot._

Self flagellation over, Phil shifts the home made blunt rope dart to wrap diagonally around his chest like a sash, linked back to itself out of the way because dammit he’d been having fun with it but right now he wants to get in close again. So he follows not two steps behind Clint, hands going to the small of his back and coming out with a set of knives. They’re worn, comfortable, well loved and sharp enough to shave with (which he had done more than once, actually).

Clint wastes no time using the cane sword until the blade breaks from the hard use (and hitting someone’s femur). He slams the sheared off blade into the jugular of the perpetrator with the nicked femur and switches weapon again. Ice pick it is.

He paces Clint, stays damn near back to back with him, a swirling blood red storm of throat cuts and heart shots, falling back into that burning groove again of nothing but the next kill strike in the chain. It’d been a very long time since he’d been cut this loose, had this many targets trying to get under his hands, and he’s not going to stop until they run out of enemies to put down.

Clint usually can’t stand someone covering his back so close. They tend to restrict his movements, but this is Phil. They’ve known each other long enough, they’ve fought near each other for years. He can predict Phil’s moves half as well as Phil can predict Clint’s. If only Phil had been allowed to fight more. No matter, they understood the flow of each other’s body. Thus, they moved near-flawlessly together.

The other targets, the living ones, hesitate in getting nearer. Clearly they have orders to fight to the death or die slowly or something. Most men with sense would have run by now. Clint won’t argue, or course, he’s having way too much fun to want it to be over just yet.

One of the goons had gotten his hands on a baseball bat. His first instinct is to duck as he swung it, but then Phil would get hit. He moves into it. It’s not being swung hard enough to break his neck—cowards, the lot of them. He drops as the bright white pain blossoms over his throat. His body tries to gasp for breath; he just grips his ice pick a little harder to help him muscle through it.

 **“Fucking HELL let me take the hit next time!”** Coulson snarls and moves to stand over him, knives going back into their holsters and gun coming back out, defending Clint as he gets his breath back, opening fire at the goons that are visible. His shots are true, and he reloads in an effortless, automatic motion.

Clint rolls and stabs the man who hit him in the calf. When he drops, Clint yanks the pick back and slams it home through his opponent’s eye and into his brain. The archer struggles to get back to his feet, breathing is difficult as his throat bruises and swells.

Phil’s breathing is hard and jittery, and he shifts to offer a hand down to Clint to help him up after a moment, other hand holding the gun up in warning. But, after his flurry of fatal shots, no one else is currently coming at them, and he appreciates the pause. His hand is tight on Clint’s to steady him.

Clint won’t say he’s touched that Phil is protecting him. He’s sure the older man already knows. He frees his hand after regaining his footing and takes out his throwing knives. He contents himself by picking off ones that his handler doesn’t get to. The others are thinning after Coulson’s spree with the gun.

He climbs to his feet and has to rest back-to-back against the other for a moment. “I’m expendable,” he mutters just loud enough for Phil to hear. He means it too. He’s just a sniper for hire. Phil is remarkably brilliant and a high-level agent in one of the most elite organizations in the world.

Phil takes Clint’s weight without effort, both likes and hates it. He likes the feel but he hates the reason behind it. **“Bullshit. You are not and never will be expendable. You’re my operative. I’m nothing without my operative.”** He snaps this over his shoulder. **“Never say that again. Don’t even consider it.”** Of course, Phil’s expendable, sort of. He’s got a high dollar value attached to him, and he’s aware of it. Efforts would be made to retrieve him if he’s compromised, but after a certain point SHIELD would hit the point where they’d deny knowing him. Given he’d have to fuck up pretty hard to be abandoned, but, it was an option on the flow chart of responses.

Those words, in that voice, are a deadly combination to Clint’s hormones. He really just wants everyone else to die so he can convince Phil to fuck him to pieces. He tentatively presses against him a little more, and soon he needs to as a dizzy spell hits. “Yessir. ‘m yours.” It’s true. As long as he’s wanted, he’ll be around.

There aren’t many left. Maybe five or so, and the ground is slick with blood and cluttered with bodies. It’s kind of beautiful. Clint would be enjoying it more if he didn’t hurt so much. He pulls away from Phil’s back. “Wanna take three? I’ll handle the two.”

 **“That’ll work.”** Phil waits to make sure Clint’s steady then moves, boots scratching into the ground as he hits a dead run and charges his three targets, leaping and baseball sliding over a crate. The gun has disappeared back into its holster, and the knives come back out.

Adrenaline and endorphins has every nerve in his body wire tight, hot as lava and he knows he’s functionally on borrowed time right now, waiting for all of it to drop in a spectacular burning crash, so he doesn’t stretch out the hits on his three targets. One actually gets a shot off and busts his lip open, he barely staggers at the blow and whips between them rapid fire. They’re down in less than fifteen seconds, then he’s swinging back over the crate, licking his split lip and holstering the knives back up as he walks to rejoin Clint, eyes black and flying-gone, hands jittering.

Clint doesn’t really know how he did it, but one has a snapped neck and the other had his face slammed repeatedly into the concrete. He’s sure that neither will be moving ever again. He shivers slightly, looking around at everything they’d caused before looking at Phil and… _oh_.

Phil looks ridiculously fucking amazing. Clint almost-runs at him and grabs the knot of his tie to drag him in. He pants against his mouth briefly before pressing his body flush and licking the blood from the elder’s lips. He shivers a little as his other hand cups the back of Phil’s neck. He shamelessly grinds his erection against the other’s thigh.

Phil catches Clint in his arms when he’s run to, putting a hand on the back of his neck and pulling him into a kiss, hard and hungry, biting Clint’s lower lip. He desperately licks into his mouth as his other hand slips between them, stroking his archer’s clothed erection slowly with teasing fingers.

 **“You. Have been holding out on me.”** He pulls back just enough to murmur against Clint’s mouth, black eyes barely open, hand still clamped on the back of his neck.

Clint groans into Phil mouth and grips the shoulders of his protective vest to hold him close. He doesn’t fight for dominance, but he does meet Phil’s level of passion and desperation as he nips and sucks at the older man’s lips. He gasps against his mouth as fingers brush over his cock. “Have not,” Clint pants softly. “Ya jus’ aren’t ‘round when I’m havin’ fun an’ and offin’ people.”

 **“We’re going to have to change that.”** He keeps stroking, puts more pressure on, grinding against Clint so the other man knows just how aroused he is. And now that he’s out of combat he’s painfully hard, aching with need, aching just with the idea that he finally won’t burn out alone. **“It gets you off doesn’t it. The job. The violence and the freedom of it.”** He drags his tongue along Clint’s jaw, bites his ear. **“Me too. For years now, decades now.”**

Clint grunts and bucks against Phil’s hand as he grinds his own thigh against the other’s erection. “Yeah.” He tips his head back for a second before surging in to heckle a bruise between jaw and shirt collar. He gropes what he can reach around the armor, a swell of shoulder, a bicep, a bit of well-muscled thigh, that perfect ass… “God, fuck, sir…” He nips at his jugular. “Years an’ years for me too.” He sucks at his throat. “All that fuckin’ wasted _time_.”

Phil moans and tilted his head, shuddering at the feeling of Clint’s mouth at his neck. No kidding all that wasted time, they could have been coming down together for how many missions? **“Ohh, I want you so bad right now, you perfect, gorgeous creature…”** He growls, shifting to bite and lick at Clint’s neck.

Clint is nothing if not obliging when his handler wants to mark his neck. “Wanna bend me over a crate? Or fuck me against the wall?” Clint bucks against him, panting heavily as he whispers in his ear. “I got a condom an’ gun oil on me. No mess, no evidence…” He nips Phil’s earlobe and traces along the shell of it with the tip of his tongue. “C’mon, sir, y’know y’wanna. Fuck me to pieces. Fuck me hard, like ya mean it. Mark me, bruise me…”

Phil groans and shudders, eyes lulling. Gods damn, Clint talking like that just destroys him and any willpower he could dream of having. **“I want to fuck you against the wall. Bite bruises into your neck and anything else I can get to. Leave handprints on your hips. Make you cry my name again and again.”** His breathing has gone ragged, hand on the back of Clint’s neck shifting to curl into his hair and tug just barely. **“Just, I... I’m not going to be able to hold back at all.”**

Clint rolls his hips against Phil with a little groan. “ _Please_.” He messily searches his pockets to find the bottle of oil and presses it into the hand not in his hair. “Fuck, I want that, sir.” He darts forward as best he can and licks the blood from the split in Phil’s lip. “Lemme have it. Don’t hold back.” He trusts Phil’s to be smart about this and to listen to Clint about stretching him well enough. He doesn’t care how hard he’s fucked once he’s open and won’t tear something sensitive.

In the middle of a warehouse and short an actual wall, Phil twists and puts Clint’s back against a nearby stack of box-loaded pallets that seem up to the task, accepting the bottle of oil into his gloved hand and kissing Clint again. He gets his gloves off, shoving them in a pocket then popping the front catches of his armor, letting the low-profile chest piece hang open as he gets Clint’s pants undone. He doesn’t bother stopping the moan, letting the hard hot kiss muffle it as his hand actually contacts hard hot flesh and it’s such a relief, god how long he’d been riding out his post-combat high alone, how long they both had apparently, fuck he needed Clint so bad right now he was actually dizzy. That much blood had moved.

His hand strokes Clint a few times then he’s getting the oil open and sliding slick fingers between the other man’s legs to start massaging him open, cutting the kiss off to bite along his jaw and attack his neck, a shiver rolling down his spine.

Clint bucks into Phil’s hand as fingers wrap around him. God… Clint’s been fairly lucky about the whole thing. He’s usually alone when he’s killed a target. It’s easy to wrap a condom around the tip of himself and jerk off into it to keep the evidence hidden. No one’s around to see and long as he’s quiet, no one knows. Phil probably doesn’t have that luxury and so this for the both of them is nothing short of amazing.

But that’s just how sex with Phil is anyway.

He groans loudly at the bites to his neck, his head falling to the side. His tac-vest cradles the side of his face as he shudders softly. He hooks one leg around one of Phil’s to spread his legs a bit. “Fuck, sir, lemme turn ‘round an’ bend over for ya, yeah?”

Phil moves his hands reluctantly, stealing another kiss before he shifts back. **“However’s most comfortable for you.”** Yeah, that’s nearly a goddamn joke they’re in a prop warehouse surrounded by bodies they just put down, but what the fuck ever, it’s a battlefield, they’re not known for comfort.

There’s something very raw and real about this, to him, and he finds himself liking it. A lot.

Clint snorts and kisses Phil frantically, all nipping teeth and questing tongue. When he finally pulls away, his breath is a bit shaky. “Not so much comfort as it is easier for you to stretch me,” he purrs, “I need you to fuck me, sir, so bad. Just tryin’ ta hurry the process a bit.” He turns around and helps his pants drop to his knees. He spreads his legs as best as he can and bends over for Phil. “C’mon,” he wriggled his hips.

Clint is never patient, never wants it gentle, is always pushing Phil, begging him to go faster and harder. It’s nearly a mantra and it’s starting to have interesting effects on Phil’s willpower over time. Once upon a time he was content to go slow, take interest in the chase and hunt. Not anymore, it seemed...

Phil presses himself along Clint’s back, uses his teeth to catch at the scruff of Clint’s neck and bite lightly as his hand goes back to work, other hand gripping into one of his archer’s hips to steady him. The investigative hand massages him and takes some time relaxing and easing him before one greased finger slides in. His breath pants slow and hot against Clint’s neck.

Clint’s breath catches and stutters in his throat as Phil bites. He moans softly and presses back against him. He loves the feel of Phil’s hands on him in any context. Gentle, firm or bruising, he loves it all. He’s wanted to be touched by him for so long that now that he has it, he’s greedy and just wants more and more.

 **“I want to do this after every mission. If we can.”** Phil purrs, letting out a shaking breath as his hand rocks.

“Yes,” he hisses, “every mission,” a groan gets caught in his throat, cracking. He’s so hard already and he wants Phil’s cock so badly. “Fuck, ya feel so good an’ we’ve barely fuckin’ started, _god_.” He’ll become a workaholic if he gets treated like this after every job.

It’s a low thrill when Clint agrees, and the idea that he’ll be able to do this again and again makes Phil growl. He let go of Clint’s hip in favor of wrapping that arm up around Clint’s chest, hand resting on the opposite shoulder to secure him as his teeth graze and nip at one of his ears.

His hand rocks until the grip on it relaxes then makes it two fingers, tongue lapping at Clint’s earlobe as his fingers curl and stroke inside before he starts rocking his hand again. His hips are twitching, just barely, forcing himself to be patient because the more time he spends on this, the more the can let go in the future.

Clint’s tac-vest keep him from feeling Phil’s arm around him but he won’t complain. They aren’t in a friendly area and he rather not getting shot and dying in the middle of mind-blowing sex. As a second finger is added he groans loudly, it slowly dying off into a needy keen. “Sir… Sir, _please_.” He begs softly. He’s not giving him instruction, just adding to the urgency of it all. He shifts and his pants drop to his ankles and he shifts his legs again to accommodate Phil and his fingers. He pushes back against the slick digits with a sharp gasp, quickly followed with a moan. He shivers. “More.”

Phil honestly didn’t think he could get harder. He was wrong, because he now aches, the fabric of his pants harsh on hypersensitive skin. God, how did he get so lucky as to have such a walking turn-on in his life?

He’s more than feeling the urgency of it and that’s why he doesn’t even bother teasing, rocking his hand faster and firmer, letting his fingers scissor open, coaxing Clint’s needy flesh to open and relax before he gives up and makes it three fingers, sinking them in to the knuckles, leaning his forehead on the back of Clint’s neck and huffing out a chuckling breath. **“God damn, I’ve never wanted anyone more than I want you right now…”** He murmurs, hand rocking very slowly, even as his patience is starting to rip apart at the seams.

Clint’s whole body shudders. “Sir…” He gasps weakly. He reaches down and wraps two fingers firmly around the base of his cock out of worry that he might come too soon because of that voice. He trembles and pushes back against Phil’s fingers because he’s greedy and wants more. “Ready, ready, ready, ‘m ready.” He gasps, “Please, _fuck_ me. Shit, sir, I _need_ your cock in me, _please_.”

Phil’s slick fingers barely manage to get his belt open and his pants undone, they sag around his hips as he strokes oil down himself and gets lined up. All that preparation was more than worth it but he still moves slow and careful, groaning in pleasure and relief as he hilts inside. Just fuuuuck. He’s so rattled with adrenaline and endorphins from the fight, utterly high off battle and so used to burning out and coming down alone. Now, there’s this, there’s Clint and it’s like he finally scratched an itch that’s been there decades, finally met a burning need he’s had since he started fighting.

It’s something to really contemplate later, right now it’s just Clint, only Clint, as his hands grip into the other man’s hips and he starts to move, careful at first, breathing hard.

Clint gurgles softly, unable to form words for a moment. He’s never been able have this desire satisfied so soon after a kill other than jerking himself off. This is so much better that he never wants Phil to be away from him when he’s sniping. He wants his… Phil in the room with him. Always. This, them, will always be his preference now.

He grips the base of his cock harder. It’s thick, blood-heavy, and aching to be let go. Bracing himself, he pushes back against Phil, hoping he has a good stance and won’t get pushed back. He moans at Phil grasping his hips, “Harder.” He hisses, “Wanna have your handprints on me for days, sir.”

There’s that getting familiar mantra again, the consistent plea. Harder. Phil is in no position to even try to deny such a request. His hands grip in tighter, fingers spreading out and digging in hard. The idea of leaving hand prints on Clint’s hips sends a thrill through him, more so because it’s wanted. Either way, he needs the grip because suddenly the adrenaline drops, and he’s snarling helplessly and shaking with it as his nerves light up like strobes. Phil bites at the back of Clint’s neck again with a desperate groan as he thrusts.

Clint whimpers and shakes at the teeth on his neck. it’s so perfect, so good, he can barely hold himself up. “Fuck, yer ‘mazin’,” he gasps as Phil pistons in and out of him with punishing thrusts. The slick, hot slide is blissful. Clint swears his eyes would be crossed if they were open. “More,” he begs as he rocks back into him. He adjusts the angle of his hips and suddenly… _there_. Clint sees the edge of his vision fade as even more blood rushes down to his groin—something he didn’t think it could do.

There’s no question, Clint is ruined for any other lover he might have had. There is no way he won’t compare anyone and everyone to Phil. He already knows they won’t measure up. No one can be as good at everything Clint loves, wants, and needs as this man. He can feel it deep inside him.

Phil is lost, far gone, a thousand half-dreamed fantasies over many years suddenly spinning into reality all at once, visceral and gritty and perfect. Clint always feels perfect around him and the windup of battle just emphasizes that, his perfect talented fucking archer. His perfect archer who is arching against him, then Clint’s body starts and shudders, and that’s all he needs to know he’s right on target. He slows his hips, letting his thrusts travel full length as his mouth bites at Clint’s neck again then stretches to nip one of his ears. He doesn’t have words anymore, vocabulary squeezed out of his chest and mind by bright pleasure.

Clint’s vocabulary is reduced to “please”, “fuck”, and “Phil”. He’s trying not to shake apart under Phil’s thrusts, but he can feel it coming anyway. He still holds tight to himself, not allowing his body to go over the edge yet. He’s waiting for Phil to say he can. He wants this to last as long as it can. He’s been wanting this for so long. He wants to savor it. The younger man arches his back and feels something trickle down his side. He pays it no mind for he is too far gone to think of anything but the pleasure and who is giving it to him.

Phil growls, fingers tightening and gripping into Clint’s hips even more as he struggles with himself, gasping for air. He feels something warm and wet slick over one of his hands, but ignores it for the moment, dismissing it as sweat. **“Gunna come for me?”** His voice is raw, ragged, holding back his own climax by sheer force of will.

Clint swears he can feel his orgasm clawing at his insides to be let out. “W-waitin’… nngh—” he cries out at a hard thrust and his heart is going a mile a minute. “F’r p’mission, sir,” he slurs, his eyes rolling back as his toes curl. His ass is getting sore from Coulson’s hipbones slamming into him and he would have it no other way.

Phil doesn’t even bother lingering on how hot that is to him, he’s dancing a painful edge and he’s sure Clint is worse. **“You have it. Come for me, baby.”** He needs it, needs to see, hear, and feel it. He needs, desperately needs, Clint to come first.

He might have commented on how considerate that was for Phil to want him to come first. Might. Instead he strokes himself hard and fast and his whole body jerks and trembles under the stimulation. A whine comes from his throat, needy and long. He slowly clenches harder and harder around Phil until his whole body goes taught and he clamps down around Phil’s cock as his orgasm steals his breath and stops his heart for half a second.

Phil can’t even get a sound out, strangling out silent as the near painful grip on him yanks him into orgasm, tucking his face against Clint’s shoulder blades and gasping hard as he rides it out, shivering. It’s several moments of pulse-filled silence before his brain comes back online, and he grumbles at how wet and sticky his hand is, bringing it up to wipe on his jacket and freezing when he sees it.

Red.

Blood. Not his.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wounds bandaged and a short debrief later, they're asked to go out against and tie up loose ends. At least they have a car ride to catch their breath.

“Don’t move. Just... not a lot and slow if you have to. You’re injured, Clint.” He clears his throat, voice still raw at the edges and still fuzzy from his orgasm but now scrambling to reassemble them, getting his clothes fixed then Clint’s carefully before tracing the blood back on Clint. “It’s under your vest..” He turns his throat mic back on. “This is Coulson. Response crew, do we have a medic?”

He’s hurt? Well. that’s sort of news to him. Clint hadn’t really felt it, but he isn’t surprised at the same time. He’s high on the fight and sex. He hadn’t been feeling much but good. And he’s not really looking forward to sitting still under a medic while leaking Phil’s come. Next time—and god, he hopes there’ll be a next time—they’re using condoms.

“Of course there’s a fuckin’ medic.” Clint drawls as Phil receives confirmation. Not someone they’ve been on a job with, too green for that, but they wouldn’t be on the mission if they weren’t good. And they were only a few minutes out. “I think my tac-vest was keepin’ pressure on it all this time…”

“That was mostly to get their attention.” Phil admits, turning the mic back off. “And I agree, which is why I’m not trying to open your vest right now.” His own is still hanging open, he does it back up for appearances sake. After a moment’s pause, he steps back into Clint, the not-bloody hand coming to rest on the back of his neck and kissing him very light and gentle. “And I meant it when I said I want this to happen in the future, if you’re agreeable. Minus the injuries of course.” He murmurs this against Clint’s lips. “That was amazing.”

“Fuckin’ hell,” Clint gasps softly. The things that man’s voice does to him. Clint grabs a hold of Phil’s shoulder straps to steady himself as pain slowly starts to make itself known. He kisses Phil hungrily but keeps it brief. “I have to be more numb’n a pounded thumb to be mildly unagreeable.” Clint chuckles breathlessly as his eyes dart over Phil’s face. “Have ya seen ya? ‘m not dumb enough ta say no to that.”

He steps back when he hears people approaching and if that doesn’t get him to feel his injury, he doesn’t know what would. “Motherfuckin’ ow.” He mutters to himself, his hand resting over the wound on his vest. He chews the inside of his cheek and hopes it’s not too deep.

He’s made to lay down when the medic does show. An absorbent sheet is tossed down to keep the germs on the floor away. Clint unbuckles the vest as the medic preps her tools. A large part of his shirt is stained with blood. “An’ that’s why I never wear any of my clothes on an op if SHIELD’s payin’ my bills. They wouldn’t fuckin’ reimburse me on clothes.”

The medic cuts his shirt away as Clint watches her, morbidly. He knows that, psychologically, it’ll hurt worse when he sees the wound, but he can’t stop himself. He’s cleaned (which stings badly), numbed, stitched and bandaged in almost record time. He compliments the medic, thoroughly impressed at the no nonsense and fast hands. His arm and throat are taken care of (more stitches and gauze for the former, a tie-on ice pack for the latter).

“Your turn, sir.” Clint smirks as he just… lays there. He’s not up to moving just yet. Not when the fact that he narrowly missed having his innards punctured is fresh in his mind. They don’t have to be out to debrief for another ten minutes. He’ll take his time to rest when he can get it.

Phil had been nearby the entire time Clint’s being treated, talking to some of the response crew. They’re not in debrief but discussions are had to make cleanup more efficient. He and Clint’s use of improvised weapons barely lifts an eyebrow from any of the team (though the now-broken sword gets some kudos points, as does the improvised blunt rope dart).

Really, his mind is far away the entire time because his life just jumped a few tracks to the side, metaphorically speaking, still going the same way but shit’s just seriously changed. He’d thought all his life he’d been alone in suffering that kind of post-combat burn out. He was wrong. And it was Clint. Perfect, handsome, deadly Clint.

When Clint talks he almost startles, then walks over, not letting himself limp. He stops next to the sheet and tears his pants leg open some more, showing the bandage. “Got grazed by a gunshot, I don’t think it’s too bad though.”

The medic pulls the bandage and makes efficient work of repacking it, then packs up her gear. Phil sits down next to Clint, watching the crew work, the pair left alone for a few minutes. “So. In light of this...” He finally says, staring off for a moment as he sits in half lotus with his hands on his knees. He then looks at Clint. “Want to go out? Like, officially, I mean.” He clears his throat, entirely too awkward for a man his age.

Clint’s ears are ringing a little and he attributes that to what he just thought he heard. His eyes are shut as he practices breathing exercises and meditation to take his mind off the pain that he can very definitely feel in his side (which, at least, is a great distraction from Phil’s come leaking out of him now that his body has relaxed).

He cracks open an eye to see that Phil is staring at him. Expectantly. “Uh…” Clint swallows and slowly pushes himself up until he’s sitting, a hand pressed to his side. “You… are you fuckin’ serious…?” He asks in disbelief. At Phil’s slow nod his heart leaps into his throat. He almost can’t believe it but Phil wants more than just sex. (Frankly, that’s scary. He doesn’t even know the first thing about relationships. What says he could handle it, let alone want to try?) But at the same time, Clint thinks, if it’s him. Yeah. I could. He starts to answer, “I—”

“Agent Coulson, Specialist Barton. We need to debrief you. Something has come up and we need to send you out again.”

Phil largely considers himself a company man. He carries out orders, asks intelligent questions, handles operations expertly. This is probably the only reason why he doesn’t get snide or sarcastic at this order. Even though he kind of wants to make a comment that both he and Clint are injured, and just came out of a hell of a fight, downtime would be good, even a day…

Instead, he just sighs and gives Clint a weary smile after giving the Agent that spoke a dark look. “Duty calls.” He hefts himself to his feet and offers a hand down, helping Clint up and steadying him for a few moments, then they’re both walking out of the warehouse.

Briefings in the backs of vehicles are not that uncommon. In this case, it’s a SHIELD work crew van, a SWAT van equivalent, and they end up sitting side by side on a bench seat while the other agent runs through what had come up. The agent’s working off a tablet so it’s apparently so new they haven’t bothered to print it off, yet.

Honestly Phil’s focus is not all that great. Still, he listens. Intel states that the people they’d just torn up were part of a smuggling ring that’s been on SHIELDs shit list. Now there’s a window of opportunity because another part of the ring is waiting for a delivery from the guys they’d just slaughtered. It’s clearly in their best interests to wrap up all the loose ends now while there are two very capable members in the field.

“Any approach you choose is allowed. All targets are green at this time. Unfortunately air drop-off would attract attention so you’ll be driving. Drive time should be under two hours.” The Agent pauses and looks at them. “We have clean BDUs if you want to change.”

“I could do with some pants that aren’t torn open.” Phil remarks dryly.

“And not smellin’ like antiseptic an’ rusty nails might be nice. I get any stiffer an’ people’ll start callin’ me a flake.” He brushes dried blood off the bench to make his point. Throughout the lightning quick debrief he’d been sagging against Phil and by the weight against him he knew the other man was doing the same. The warmth and weight was comforting. It still is. “D’ya got any of that shit ya try to pass as coffee ‘round here? I seriously need a boost.”

He staggers to his feet and hisses, his hand at his side. Fuck, that really hurts. “Pain killers too.” He doesn’t want to be too drugged when he’s needed on the second op with Phil but, damn, he hurts. He’ll forgo the hand-to-hand this round, but he’s too stubborn to use a gun when a bow is within reach. His aim just isn’t as good and he can draw as fast as his pistol can reload. Plus, trick heads are more fun than bullets. “After you, sir. You’re the one who’s gotta get gussied up for the date with the druggies.” He snorts and tries to pretend that he doesn’t feel like he’s trying to hold his guts in even though he’s stitched up.

“Actually I think I’m dressing down this time, Barton. Shocking, I know.”

The other Agent rolls his eyes and opens a cabinet, producing BDU pants and plain shirts in the proper sizes for both of them, finds undamaged armor for Clint, and produces two disposable cups of coffee from god knows where. Then he leaves the van and closes the door behind him, leaving them alone in the reasonable privacy of the blacked out van to change. He slaps on little battery operated lights as he goes to keep them from being stuck in the dark with the door shut.

“I would have dialed it back a bit last time if I’d been aware we were going to have a double header tonight.” Phil finally says, taking off his suit jacket and setting it aside, then his tie, then popping out of the armor. After that he’s into the clean BDUs in record time, lacing his boots back up. He’s waiting for Clint to speak up first. As... not entirely appropriate as the topic is, considering, but hell. When was the right time for such talks...?

“Be it far from me to say ya can’t dress like the rest of us mere mortals, sir.” Clint winks and drops his pants. Far easier to do that one first. After rummaging around he manages to find clean underwear—a godsend—and yanks the dirty ones off too. He pauses to wipe himself. If anyone were to be ashamed of that, he figures it would be Phil. He’d been the one to forget the condom. Clint hisses softly at the rough fabric against his still sensitive hole. If that wasn’t a turn-on…

“I like a good suit. Nothing else can be simultaneously unassuming and intimidating, stand out then blend in.” Phil drains half of the coffee and is surprised—and pleased—to find it’s Dunkin Donuts. Good enough for him, he’s learned not to be a coffee snob when on operations.

“I like ya in a good suit,” Clint mutters softly to himself. He’s not ashamed at all if Phil overhears him. He’s told him more than once that he’s a damn fine specimen of the male species. “Ya can’t ‘blend in’ wi’me, sir. I can always pick ya outta the crowd.” At first he’d had to work for it but as of the last five years? It’s like Phil is a magnet. He can just turn and know where he is. Even blindfolded (Natasha had a giggle fit over that).

“You’ve had practice in finding me. I’ve had people meet me twice and honestly not make connections. Of course it is somewhat by design.” After all, as an Agent, Phil is in all practicality a spy. Being able to disappear in a crowd is a necessary skill. James Bond movies got that part wrong: real spies just couldn’t stand out, appearance wise. Well, fine, that depended on the kind of spy he supposed.

“Damn good design,” Clint winks and chuckles. The archer pulls his clean underwear on as well as the pants and balls up the clothes he’d been wearing. They weren’t going to salvage them so he won’t have to deal with anyone asking about why there’s semen staining both the boxers and the pants. “I shoulda picked more off as I herded them to ya.” Clint shifts the talk back to mission-minded. “We didn’t have to do that but…” he grins wolfishly, “it sure was fun.”

“Yes, it was very enjoyable. I wish we got to fight side by side more often.”

Clint grins brightly, doing that again sometime sounds like a great idea. Maybe next time he can avoid getting stabbed in the gut too. “Maybe you’ll join me for sparrin’ more often then.” He always wondered if throwing Clint around on the mat and getting thrown in return was a turn on for Phil. Clint won’t deny that it helped with some interesting fantasies later on.

He gingerly moves to put the shirt on (as they’d completely removed his previous one when they were about to stitch him up) and has to stop. “Ow, fuck, can ya help me wi’this?”

“Once we’ve healed up some I would be completely fine with sparring,” Phil says in response to the suggestion of sparring before stepping over at the request. He sets his cup down and helps Clint get the shirt on. Which, realistically, is the exact opposite of what he normally wants to do, but it does give him a practical reason to be close and just a bit touchy-feely. “Will you be able to do a full bow pull with that?” His brow wrinkles slightly.

He steps in as Phil helps the shirt on and he slowly flexed his arms, miming a draw. “‘s on the side I don’t have to worry ‘bout. ‘m fine, sir.”

He steps back just slightly so Clint has room to move his arms, reaching and passing him his cup of coffee. “Good. And yes, you are fine, let’s not state the obvious.”

At the compliment, he leans in to kiss Phil, settling the shirt with a careful roll of his shoulders. He accepts the coffee just as a knock comes from the side of the van.

“Transport’s ready.” Time to go.

“Fuckin’ cockblockers. I hate work. I want a fuckin’ vacation.” Clint grouses. He sips his coffee and heads out of the van. “C’mon, sir, let’s get movin’. The sooner we leave, the sooner we can bust the skulls responsible for ruinin’ our night.” He grabs his bow and quiver from where they wait by the door. Luckily, he hadn’t needed to use it and it’s full and ready to go.

“I love my job but I’m not enjoying their sense of timing right now.” Phil arms himself again, buckling gun and knife holsters into place as he follows, finishing his coffee.

Their transport is a plain black sedan, nothing special. One of god knows how many cars SHIELD has at their disposal. The Agent handing Phil the keys opens the trunk first to show the gun cases and first aid kits inside. “Always be prepared?” Phil lifts an eyebrow and takes the keys.

“We discussed throwing in the kitchen sink.” The other agent just barely smiles.

Clint slurps his coffee and is halfway into the passenger seat when Phil says, “Fair enough. I’m driving, Barton.”

Clint laughs, “I’m about to take pain killers an’ try not ta fall asleep. Ya seriously think I was gonna ask ta drive?” He leans the seat back but doesn’t buckle in. It would just press against his wound unpleasantly.

Phil sets his phone in a stand waiting to hold it with their destination popping up o nthe screen once satellite connections are made. He starts the car and pulling away from the temporary base. He doesn’t bother with the radio in the vehicle itself, instead loading the radio application on his phone and plugging the car stereo into it instead, and moments into the drive quiet jazz accompanies their ride.

“Sleep is probably a good thing.” Phil says after a long moment, eyes out the window, slouched slightly in the driver’s seat. The car is an automatic, leaving his right hand briefly confused before settling back on the wheel. “I would like an answer to my question, though. Eventually. Take your time.”

Clint can feel butterflies in his stomach or something. Maybe it’s worms. Phil really is serious about this. He’s never actually dated-dated someone before. This… this is new. This is gut-churning new. He watches Phil from the corner of his eye and silently drinks his coffee until it’s about half gone, not wanting to keep himself up when he’s about to try a nap.

He can’t find the right words to say anything immediately. After a while he reaches for Phil’s right arm and trails his fingers along the inside from elbow to wrist, gently tugging it toward him so he could take Phil’s hand. “Never done that before.”

Phil feels his skin shiver at the light touch to his arm, letting his hand get tugged from the steering wheel, lacing his fingers with Clint’s after a moment. It’s been a long time since he really held someone’s hand. It’s... really comforting actually. Solid and tangible, unlike the racing trains of thought earlier.

“Mm.” Phil hums in agreement. He’s almost in the same boat. “I’m willing to try. It’s... been awhile since I was really in a relationship. Because I’m obviously so smooth, right?” He snickers in a self-deprecating way. “But I do want to try. I think we work together well. I think we could keep doing so.”

“Yer… askin’ for the whole thing, right?” It’s best to clear that up now. “Exclusivity an’ all that?” He’s been required to have sex with people on missions before. He’d have to remove the permissions for that particular skill set from his file. It’s not like it’s a big loss. Clint certainly won’t mind because there hasn’t been a single person who could match up to Phil even before they’d started fucking. Clint has actually tried to find someone to take his mind off his handler, but no one has been successful.

“Yeah. If you don’t mind, that is.” He hopes like hell Clint doesn’t because the idea of Clint being with someone else makes him feel very defensive and possessive, though he’s well aware he probably doesn’t have the right to feel that way.

Clint doesn’t fucking mind at all. “Pretty sure you’ve ruined me for anyone else.” Clint laughs and squeezes his hand. “I’ll take permissions outta my file. No sex with targets.” He swipes his thumb over Phil’s knuckles.

“...I stopped looking. Because of you.” It’s strange to admit out loud. “Not that I really thought of it in those terms, but... I stopped looking and made you a priority. Says a lot.” He squeezes Clint’s fingers just a bit in response to the thumb gracing over his knuckles.

A rush of electricity floods through Clint’s stomach. Phil had stopped… Fuck it. There is no reason to analyze this anymore. “Yeah.” He clears his throat. “As in yes. Please. I’d… really fuckin’ like to be exclusive with ya.” Dating. Oh holy fuck, Clint Barton is dating. This could be amazing or terrible and he can’t decide which.

Phil swallows hard, mostly an attempt to put his heart back where it belonged, and settled for pulling Clint’s hand up, pressing a kiss to his knuckles and nuzzling there before letting their hands fall back down. “I admit,” Phil pauses, “I’ve been thinking about this for a while but, I was kind of worried...” More like really fucking scared... “About how you’d react to what tends to happen to me when I fight. The turn-on part I mean. I’ve... had people walk away from me over that. But, surprise surprise, kindred spirits in yet something else.”

That’s new. He isn’t expecting the kiss to his hand or anything else that comes after. He didn’t think Phil was the type—well, he’ll just have to stop right there. Stop making assumptions about Phil and start learning more about this softer side of him. Maybe Clint could reveal more of his soft underside too. Clint shivers slightly at the mention of how he reacts to fighting situations. “Hey, I certainly don’t mind that I’ll no longer be jackin’ off alone after a hit,” he teases. “I’ve got a feelin’ that this ain’t gonna be the only thing we’re alike in, y’know?”

“I know it’s not the only way we’re alike. We’ve worked together a long time. I suspect we’re alike in a lot of ways.” It’s not even really a status change, they’d been fighting for each other for literal years, but it certainly felt like it had more weight to him now. “Okay. Let’s not get killed out there, hm?”

Clint resumes stroking along the side of Phil’s hand, their fingers intertwined. “Never my intention, sir.” Clint smirks before tipping the chair back a little. “Wake me when we’re three-quarters of the way there? I wanna make sure ‘m not groggy.”

“Mhm. Sure. Get some rest.” Phil doesn’t let go of his hand, easily handling the car one handed. He’s actually wide awake, though relaxed and rather content. Hopeful. He’d never really seen this happening but now that he has it, he’s never giving it back willingly.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Committing arson is hotter than either of them would have thought. What's a double header without a round two—albeit a gentler one?

Eventually Phil glances at their time to arrival on the GPS and squeezes Clint’s hand gently. “Time to wake up.” His voice sounds loud in the quiet music-filled cabin of the car, even though he’s speaking quietly.

“‘m not ‘sleep.” Clint mumbles. “Jus’ restin’ m’eyes. ‘ll sleep when’m dead.” He rubs his eyes with a knuckle and turns to watch Phil groggily.

“Bullshit, you were snoring not long ago.” Phil snickers. Not that it’d been loud but it had been pretty obvious that Clint had been dead to the world for about half an hour.

Clint ignores the comment and hums to himself, “could get used ta this.” A lethargic grin curls the corners of his mouth, “wakin’ up an’ seein’ ya there.” He’ll blame it on the pain killers and the sleep later, he’s not supposed to be this open or this honest but… No, he’s going to do this. He needs to be open about this. Phil’s his… okay, no. Boyfriend is too high school. They’ll worry about that later.

The comment makes Phil pause, his heart jumping in his chest again. “I... I’m not sure I’ve ever heard that. Not in a very long time anyway.”  He glances at Clint then puts his eyes back on the road. “But I like the idea of waking up and you being there.” And a hospital not being involved for fucking once...

Clint doesn’t retort but his ears visibly redden. He doesn’t look away either. They’re about to go into what could be their last op ever. He doesn’t want to miss a chance of seeing Phil’s face while he’s content and not bleeding. “I know for a fact no one’s said it ta me ‘til now.” He squeezes Phil’s hand lightly before reaching for his cold coffee for a caffeine boost.

After a long moment, Phil says, “...I get the idea that neither of us are used to actually being wanted.” He stares out at the road ahead of them. “Not that it matters anymore, I guess, as long as we’re comfortable with each other.”

“If ya can’t tell that ‘m comfortable with ya by now, I’ll smack ya.” Clint runs his thumb over Phil’s knuckles.

Phil’s quiet for a while, glancing at his phone and exiting the highway, then letting out a dry laugh as they ease into another warehouse district. “What the fuck? When did our lives become made out of 80s movie cliches?”

Clint looks away from the older man finally to where their destination is. Phil’s right. Another fucking warehouse. “I vote we burn the fucker down and everyone inside. No fuss, no muss.”

Professionally? Phil should argue. Explosions and fires, deliberate ones, are practically a calling card for CSI workers. There was always the possibility of the fire getting out of control and taking buildings, and lives, not intended to burn. It increased the size of the coverup needed, dramatically.

But honestly? He is straight out of fucks to give.

“You know what? I like this idea.” Phil says after a moment, looking at Clint. “But, let’s at least get some eyes on it first and make sure that we’re not taking out anything or anyone that, you know, matters.”

Clint snorts, “‘course. What didja take me for, a rookie?” This’ll be easy. Bar off the doors, arrange a couple gas tanks outside to look like they were left there, gather lots of dry leaves and Clint will treat himself to a cigarette. He always kept one on him in case there was nothing a medic could do to save him. Toss the butt to the leaves and it’ll start so slow that anyone inside won’t see it coming.

Phil grins at him. “Never. So, shall we go be sneaky bastards?” He finds a low key spot to tuck the car, a few buildings over, hiding it in an alley between some dumpsters and locking it with the key when they get out, pacing down the alleyway with light silent steps and looking around the corner to stare at the target building. For all intents and purposes, just a building waiting for a late shipment, about half the lights on centered around one of the loading docks, the back of the building only dimly lit by the windows.

Clint keeps close to Phil, his eyes out to catch anything. He’s grateful for all the trees around them so that he can gather leaves as soon as the doors are blocked off. He listens at each door but it seems as if no one is near enough to them to be able to hear him rearranging leaves to burn them down. He moves close to Phil after barring a door to murmur in his ear. “Doors won’t be openin’. Let’s surround it with leaves, I got biodegradable accelerants in the car. Stark’s experiment. Gotta try it sometime.”

Phil nods. The building had seemed largely empty except for the targets already considered green and a bunch of stuff that would have to be destroyed anyway. “Sounds like a plan to me.” His voice is equally quiet. “Looks like there’s enough distance between buildings the fire shouldn’t spread too easily. Let’s start some fireworks.”

He paces back to the car and unlocks the trunk, finding the accelerant Clint’s talking about and passing it over. “Want me to keep an eye out from a distance, watch for stragglers?”

Clint smirks and looks Phil over, wondering if it’s a good time to crack a joke. Of course it is. “Bird’s eye view would be nice, jus’ don’t start buildin’ a nest, Kingfisher.” Phil hadn’t said it was him specifically, but the legends at SHIELD plus the gusto Phil’d had going after those men earlier? It had to be him.

Phil quirks an eyebrow then grins, canting his head to one side. **“I suppose I have been rather obvious tonight haven’t I.”** He purrs.

Clint doesn’t bother to quell the full-body shudder he has over that voice. “Help me with some of the leaves first, yeah? Just do ‘round the doors, I’ll get everythin’ else.” His voice isn’t completely steady as he speaks and he blames it completely on Phil. He pushes his mind back to the job at hand. They don’t need to surround the entire place, just the really important areas like doors, windows, and structural points.

Phil half salutes him with a smirk and wanders away to collect leaves and other burnables. He lets his mind wander as he does it, not needing a lot of brain power to collect tinder to surround the place. He thinks on Clint knowing who he really is and he’s not even concerned about it. If it’s anyone he can trust to keep something on the down-low it’s his archer. The fact of the matter is, there aren’t many people in SHIELD anymore familiar with his years as an Operative, and his name is off the file. But that doesn’t mean the skillset is gone, far from it, and it’s only all too enjoyable to revel in it again.

And now he had someone like him.

 _May god have mercy on their souls for we will have none, and all such cliche quotes,_ he snickered to himself.

That low purr of a laugh makes Clint’s dick throb and he really needs to stay focused for now. “‘Ey, now. Behave.” He raises an eyebrow. “Lemme torch the sonsabitches firs’ before ya get me all hot’n bothered, yeah?” He lets Phil do what they agreed on but when he comes back around for a brief second, he grabs him and hauls him into a hard kiss. “Can ya stop bein’ so fuckin’ hot for two seconds? Fuck, sir, ‘s not fair.” He nips his lower lip before leaning up to whisper in his ear. “I think I might be up fer a round two. Maybe a handjob in the back seat?”

Phil returns the kiss, one hand landing at the small of Clint’s back to pull him close for a moment, snickering softly at the suggestion. **“How about we finish this up and go to a hotel? Actual bed? Shower to clean up?”** He turns his head and nips one of Clint’s ears. **“Now, come on, let’s get this done hm?”** That said he steps back away and sees about finishing what Clint asked him to do, setting up all the doors with leaves and also some bundles of old newspapers he’s found, eventually wrapping up and walking back to Clint dusting his hands off and fighting the urge to whistle ( _Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap_ came to mind).

Clint lets Phil go about his part of the job while he takes care of Stark’s experimental accelerant before grabbing Phil again. “No, I wanna have ya pleasure me’n vice versa while we watch the place burn down.” He always gets a thrill in destroying buildings, add killing his targets to that and it’s pure pleasure. He presses himself close to Phil to murmur in his ear, “how ‘bout I sit in your lap, facin’ away, as we fuck slowly an’ watch it burn to the ground?”

Phil purrs, eyes lulling mostly of the way shut, one of his hands smoothing along one of Clint’s hips slowly. He knows they’re alone for the moment, he can indulge himself for a few seconds. His pulse has already sharply stepped up and his eyes blown dark again, just because of how bad Clint wants him. **“Much as I like that idea, and trust me I really do… how do you plan on us having good line of sight on this place and not getting asked some awkward questions by the police or fire department?”** He murmurs, nuzzling Clint and thinking. As it is the car would get a lot of questions and it’d be very unfortunate if they were seen leaving the scene...

Clint smirks up at Phil and pulls out a cell phone. “By pullin’ a few strings and usin’ some favors.” He taps the screen a few time before holding it up to his mouth and speaking clearly. He has a few people in just the right places to intervene and keep the fire department away. “My ‘friend’s are comin’ ta put out the fire. An’ the accelerant is smokeless anyway. This whole area isn’t used too.” Clint grins. “No one’ll be comin’ for at least an hour or so.”

Phil quirks an eyebrow. Well, one thing about this job is that it did tend to get you friends in interesting places. Having good contacts was rather important, actually. He can’t even feel bad that Clint’s using up favors setting this up.

 **“I think an hour is more than enough time.”** He nuzzles against Clint once and then regards the building. **“Shall we get this party started then?”** He produces an oldschool book of matches and offers it between two fingers, smiling.

The gentle nuzzles paired with the rough voice plays with Clint and his physical reactions enough to send a jolt right through his groin. He closes his hand over the matchbook, the other snaking behind Phil’s neck to drag him into a hard kiss with dragging teeth and rough moans. It doesn’t go for very long because, damn, he doesn’t want to get wound up and end this too soon.

“You do it,” he pants against Phil’s mouth, flicking his tongue over the older man’s lower lip. “I wanna watch ya do it.”

Phil murmurs into the embrace, pressing into it, growling and nipping at Clint’s mouth. He doesn’t bother stopping the noise of disappointment when the other man pulls away with a hint of finality, then smiles easily and nods, stepping away flipping the matchbook between his fingers.

He starts on the far end of the building, striking a match and flicking it into the pile of improvised kindling as he walks by. It lights up wonderfully and he keeps walking, starting the next one he’d set up, on down the line to start several little fires. By the time he returns, having chucked the remainder of the matches in after the lit one on the last one he started, the first one is eating into the building, and he grins to himself, hooking his thumbs into his beltloops.

Clint brings the car around from their hiding spot to put it in a spot with a good vantage point of the warehouse. Throwing it in park, he crawls into the back and scrabbles frantically for the gun oil once Phil goes to the other side of the warehouse. He unfastens his pants and gets on his hands and knees on the bench seat in the back of the vehicle. As a second thought he grabs the bar next to the seat and flattens out the back so there is more room for them. The view of the warehouse is perfect as Clint settles himself and slips a hand down the back of his pants to finger himself. He’s still a little loose from before, and a little tender too.

He pushes back against his hand as Phil comes into sight, still lighting the tinder and accelerant. He thanks the powers that be for such good eyesight as he watches Phil bend over. His ass has no right to look that good in those pants. End of story. He stifles a groan as the older agent turns toward him. Yes, good. He thrusts three fingers into himself and bites back a whimper. He needs Phil to take him so badly.

Today has been just full of surprises for Phil, and so far they’ve mostly been good ones. Yeah, he could do without the bullet graze on his leg (he has enough scars already) but it’s been an overwhelmingly great night. What he sees as he starts walking up to the car just piles more on. He manages to walk up to the car somewhat normally, leaning on the roof and looking at Clint for a moment, just enjoying the view with a smirk before swinging into the back seat and closing the door, grabbing Clint’s shirt and dragging him into a rough kiss.

Clint moans into Phil’s mouth, his fingers not stopping as he thrusts in and pulls out. He throws a leg over Phil’s lap, his head pressing against the roof of the car. His pants are around his thighs and restricting his movement but he won’t be facing Phil for much longer anyway. He bites and licks at Phil’s mouth until he has to pull back to breathe. “Please tell me you’re hard as a rock righ’ now, cause I needya fillin’ me up so fuckin’ badly.”

So, apparently, Clint’s kinky as hell. And Phil _fucking loves it_. He groans into Clint’s mouth, grabbing him close, stroking over him then getting his own pants undone with some effort but it’s a relief when he finally gets the BDUs unbuttoned and shoves them down some. He’s panting when the kiss ends, eyes barely open and rumbling low in his chest.  **“Like I could be anything but achingly hard with you on top of me like this.”** He groans against Clint’s lips.

Clint pulls Phil out of his pants with his slick hand, smirking. “Good,” he strokes him slowly. “Fan-fuckin’-tastic.” He loves the weight of him in his hand. He swallows thickly and, fuck, does his throat hurt. Between the blow of the baseball bat and all the biting and sucking Phil had done, Clint nearly has a collar of bruises. Clint licks at the sealed shut split on Phil’s lip slowly. “I wanna go slow this time. No rush. Jus’ wanna feel ya fillin’ me up so good.” He noses at Phil’s jaw. He also doesn’t want to rip his stitches, but that doesn’t really need to be said.

Phil moans, unashamed, hips lifting and rolling into Clint’s hand, letting out a shuddering breath.  **“Oh, I am just fine with slow…”** He turns his head, nipping at Clint’s jawline. One of his hands is stroking Clint, thumbing alongside that big vein, the other sliding carefully up his body. **“No reason to be quite so frantic, this time…”**

“Wanna finish this… collar?” Clint smirks at him and brushes his free hand along his neck where he can feel the swelling from all the abuse. The skin free of bruises and hickeys is all along the back of his neck, which would be facing Phil once he turns around. “Claim your property an’ all…?”

At Clint’s remark about the bruises, his hand lifts and brushes feather-light fingertips along them, momentarily just so glad the bat hadn’t done any permanent damage then focusing back on what he’s being asked. **“Mm. I like that idea.”** He purrs. He knows he has a thing for necks and the suggestion makes him twitch in Clint’s hand.

Clint shivers at Phil touching the bruises so carefully. He pulls back, squeezing Phil’s cock one last time (and tries not to fall apart at Phil’s own touches to his dick) and slowly turns himself around. The fire is just starting to grow and catch. It might reach Clint’s thigh if he stood near it. He slips a leg onto the seat on either side of Phil’s thighs and carefully backs himself up. He reaches for Phil’s cock, using it to guide him until he’s pressed against Clint’s slick hole. He sighs softly and slowly drops down, a smooth glide until he’s seated in Phil’s lap and grinding against him with a moan.

Phil muffled a long groan of satisfaction into the dip between Clint’s shoulder blades because _fuck_ that’s so nice, that initial moment of penetration, so good, Clint just feels so good. He didn’t even think, both arms sliding around the man in his lap and holding him, nuzzling into the back of his neck and lapping his tongue out, murmuring at the salty taste of his skin and how good he smelled. He knows the building is starting to go up, and he swears he’ll pay more attention to it in a few moments but right now it’s Clint, just Clint, in his arms in his lap, grinding against him. **“You are fucking amazing…”**

Clint doesn’t know when his head hung forward or when he closed his eyes. Slowly, he opens them, clenching around Phil out of his own volition. “So’re ya,” he grunts. He lifts his head and watches the fire catch and grow for a moment before lifting himself out of Phil’s lap slowly. The drag of the older man’s cock against his walls makes him lightheaded and the rush from suddenly dropping back down forces a shiver through him. “Fuck,” He’s so close to asking for Phil to give it to him harder because that’s how he loves it but at the same time he’s really tender from earlier and this is almost enough for him.

Phil growls, arms clutching Clint briefly when the younger man sets up a slow, measured pace. His hot breath paints across Clint’s shoulder blades as he struggles with himself. He makes his hips keep still and lets Clint control what was happening because he knew he’d lost his shit earlier and been pretty punishing.

“Weren’t ya gonna f-finish that collar?” Clint asks weakly, his eyes locked onto the fire. He wonders if he would be able to feel the heat of the fire from here if the door was open. 

Phil has his cheek leaning on his archer’s back but the fire is now a hazy orange glow, catching his eyes and drawing his attention, a hypnotic thing even as Clint slides back around him and drags another moan from him. The words prompt him into action though, shifting and nuzzling before biting into Clint’s neck carefully, letting his teeth scuff before sucking a mark into his skin to blend with the others, letting out a slow shaky breath.

Clint locks his eyes on the fire and smirks softly at the limited amount of dark smoke. It seems that—so far—Stark’s accelerant is a success. Phil’s mouth heckling bruises into his neck simultaneously distract him and make his cock twitch and need. He reaches back carefully so not to upset his stitches to cup the back of Phil’s head and feel the soft hair against his calloused palm.

“Nnghgodfuckyes.” Clint rolls his hips slowly and gives a strangled gasp as Phil’s head rubs over his prostate. His hand tightens on the nape of Phil’s neck and he starts to tremble slightly with how he’s trying to keep it slow because he knows he’ll just hurt himself if he doesn’t.

Phil purrs at the hand cradling the back of his head, still making himself sit still, working on making the bruises on Clint’s neck connect up. Sucking a bruise onto the back of his neck is an odd experience, and he takes the opportunity to bite there, yank gently at the scruff of Clint’s neck then work a bruise there gently. He can feel Clint quivering in his lap, and trails a hand down his front slowly to wrap around his cock and stroke slowly and lightly, shifting the tilt of his head to work on the other side of his neck.

Clint gasps softly as Phil starts to stroke him. He keeps riding him and moans every time the head of Phil’s cock brushes against something sweet. He wishes he were more patient but between the inside and outside stimulus to his body he’s approaching orgasm a lot faster than he had planned.  At this point the fire is a backdrop and a perfect one. His world is narrowing down to just the inside of the car, just his handler, though part of his brain remains on watchful security alert and he’s sure that Phil is the same.

A keen escapes his throat as the first threads of screaming from the warehouse meets their ears. His cock throbs and jerks slightly in Phil’s hand as he whimpers. He can’t resist speeding up but he has enough control over himself to increase his pace only slightly.

 **“Jesus fucking Christ.”** Phil’s growl is muffled, twitching at the screaming and struggling with himself for a moment before Clint’s whimpers utterly destroy any chance of willpower he has. Control, however, he still has. His hips roll with Clint’s, shifting so he has the ability to move _very_ carefully, arching so he can hit those good spots better, grunts of pleasure hushed out as he sucks one more dark bruise into place, finishing the collar of bruises. His hand keeps stroking, other hand moving to steady him on the seat of the car.

Phil’s voice makes him clamp down around him for a moment which results in a long and needy whine. “Fucksiryesfuckfuckfuck _please_.” He’s trembling, his eyes glazing over slightly. As the collar is finished, his head lolls back onto Phil’s shoulder. He watches the building with slit eyes and smirks when he sees a hand hit the window and then slide down.

Phil growls at the sudden tightness around him and it does nothing to stop him, nuzzling into Clint’s hair and mouthing his ear as he moves, eyes also on the fire and getting another rush because yeah, they did that and it’s just beautiful. **“You calling me sir during this just does... wonderful things to me...”** He whispers, his lips brushing over the shell of his ear as hips arch. Really the only thing keeping him gentle is the knowledge that he’ll probably hurt Clint if he isn’t, but it’s still a bit of a fight with his hungry body.

“Fuck, sir, don’t st-stop talkin’,” he shudders in his lap and grinds down on his cock carefully. His thigh muscles are starting to tremble and he can feel a shivery weight building in his gut. “Please, yer f’ckin’ voice… ha-ahh… so hot, s-sir.” He spasms around Phil’s cock at another slide down. He wraps his free hand around Phil’s to encourage a tighter grip and faster strokes.

Phil let his hand be guided, hell he likes the grip of Clint’s hand over his even in this context. The other man’s stammering makes him smirk. He’s had his .. well, his other voice called a lot of things. Creepy, disconcerting, gravely. Hot? That’s new and oh, he likes it. **“You really don’t get how hot you are, do you? How insane you drove me for so long.”** He bit at Clint’s neck again, tongue rolling over his pulse. **“And you begging, just... fuck, you could ask me for nearly anything right now...”** He doesn’t even care how close he is or isn’t anymore. This is excellent no matter what state he’s in, just having Clint like this, close, in his arms and lap, falling apart at the seams because of him. It’s marvelous.

If Clint had any mind to work with he might have managed to ask for something. He just makes Phil stroke him faster with a low whine, his head rolling to the side to lick and nip at Phil’s neck. Tiny whimpers and moans escape his throat at every stimulating movement and a deep tremor wracks his body as everything slowly approaches the “too much” category. “Y’r mine’n ‘m yers…” Clint manages to slur as a particularly deep thrust sends electricity racing throw him, “tha’ s’all I wan’…”

Phil tilts his head, smiling at the attention to his neck, letting Clint move his hand and using it as a learning opportunity, filing away how Clint’s adjusting his grip for later use. Then Clint’s words pound him, and he has a flash of reality because wow they’re really together they’re really doing this and he has a moment where he imagines a maybe-future, unknown and worrisome but settled and not alone. **“Yours. All yours, handsome, for as long as you want me.”** He arches his hips again, pushing as deep as he can, breathing hard.

Clint hums against his neck as more space is afforded for him. He scrapes his teeth along the skin as he guides Phil’s hand and makes his wrist roll and his palm drag over Clint’s head. He keens and shudders near-violently. Fuck, he’s so close now. The growl and the words given settle deep into Clint’s bones and he can’t see this going any other way. It should scare him, this level of perfection, but it doesn’t. It’s good and right and finally… finally Clint belongs. “Good,” he pants, “yes, good, fuck, so good.” He nips up to Phil’s ear. “‘m so close, sir, pleeease.”

Phil sucks in a breath and dares, takes the risk, lets his hips snap up once, still not nearly as hard as he’d been earlier but a step up from their slow movements. **“Come for me. I want to see it and feel it. I want you to come apart in my arms and know I did that.”** Honestly, he could last ages in this position, lazily screwing, it’s the other things that are killing him, making him ache and pant. Clint’s scent and taste, the singing out of his voice. Absolutely perfect, totally addictive. He wants lazy post-coital kissing as they watch the fire burn, wants to find a hotel and take a long joint shower and fall asleep with his face buried in Clint’s hair or neck. Fuck, they’d only just decided that maybe dating would be awesome and this is settling into his life with a mildly daunting (and thrilling) finality.

The snaps of his hips drag a needy moan from Clint’s mouth and he tightens around Phil marginally. “Nngh, tha’ yes.” That was perfect. There had been a slight edge of pain, but it wasn’t anything Clint couldn’t handle. He rolls his hips, “again, sir, please.” He’ll beg if he has to, he’s not above begging when it comes to sex with this man, not at all.

Phil’s voice makes his throat tighten—as well as the rest of his body. He could certainly get used to this. He’s completely ignoring the fire now, even though he can hear it starting to roar and the screaming is still muffled but reaching them. Those poor idiots. Without the smoke to suffocate them, they probably were having their flesh melted from their bones. But Clint doesn’t care about that right now. His entire world is just Phil, his Phil.

Phil groans and braces himself, hips coming off the seat hard and quick, his already worn and burned-out muscles letting him know his hips and lower back and abs would be feeling this workout for a while, and he doesn’t care. Clint wanted and he was going to give, anything to hear those moans continue, anything to make the younger man fall apart.

Then a quirky little idea worms into his mind. **“I want to fuck you in Fury’s office.”** He doesn’t even know why but it certainly feels like a good fucking idea. Probably there are better times to discuss such things but dammit the idea has occurred, even as his hips still move.

Clint cries out against Phil’s neck and his free hand flies back up to his neck to get a grip. He shudders and readies himself for another thrust. “Oh, sir…” he breathes, his voice faint. “Ohfuck,” he can just see Phil bending him over Fury’s desk and giving it to him. “Yes, I wanna…” He clenches hard around Phil as he drops into his lap one last time and comes, shooting over their hands, his stomach, and a bit of the seat in front of them. He’s weak and trembling but keeps lifting himself up and sliding down to drag Phil’s orgasm out of him too.

Phil watches it happen and that’s all the visual stimulation he needs, groaning and clutching Clint tight. Clint tries to move and Phil doesn’t let it happen, grinding against him for a second then he’s gone. He shudders through it, whispering his archer’s name, gasping for air, eyes sliding closed.

Phil holding him in place as he tries to ride him is hot. He groans and shakes as the cock inside him rubs hard over his sensitive prostate. If he could physically come again, he knows he would. He slumps back a little as Phil seems to go limp and just breathes in the scent of sex and Phil… and burning warehouse.

It’s several moments before Phil stirs again, propped upon his elbows and half laid back against the reclined seat. He struggles to turn to his archer laid next to him, but manages it to nuzzle Clint and blink groggily. He doesn’t remember Clint getting off his lap or resituating their clothes. “I really just want to sleep holding onto you. Hotel?” In fact he really just wants the world to fuck off for a few days so he and Clint can heal and get used to this whole exclusivity idea, but he doubts he’ll get that.

He shifts as Phil stirs and turns toward him a little to see his face. He grins at the mention of sleep and a hotel somewhere. And being held. Phil is definitely an exception to Clint’s comfort zone with something like that. “Yeah, sounds good.” And a hot shower to clean everything off of him. And fresh bandages too. Proper injury care, like some more ice for his swollen neck. He really is a mess at the moment.

Phil takes advantage of Clint turning and pecks him on the lips softly, then sees about getting them untangled (because Clint’s twined their limbs together during his post-coital haze) and sorted back out. Eventually he gets his clothes properly fixed and not just tugged into place. He helps Clint with his before getting out of the back and returning to the driver’s seat, going limp there for a moment as his muscles have all the strength and coherency of a custard at this point.

“A thousand detail jobs is not going to save this car.” He states after a moment, inhaling the scent of smoke and sex, a heady thick smell that’s definitely them, only them, and honestly if he was capable of getting aroused again he would be. He leans his arms and forehead on the steering wheel, then shakes off vigorously, grabbing his phone and opening a search.

“Trade your personal SHIELD-issue vehicle for this’un then. Fond memories an’ all that,” he smirks as he gingerly sits in the front seat. This isn’t going to work. He tilts the seat back and half-curls on his side, his feet braced against the door. “Or did ya not get a company car?”

A few phone calls later and he’s gotten a room reserved at a hotel about twenty minutes away, and because SHIELD was nice enough to send them on two missions back to back, he’s being nice to stick them with the cost of a king suite in a nice hotel.

He listens to the conversation, smirking even wider when the type of room is mentioned. He can hear the price the clerk tells Phil and has to shove his fist into his mouth to stop from laughing too loudly. Fury is going to blame it all on Clint, but damn… this is worth it.

“Yes, that price is fine.” Phil says, starting the car and driving one handed easily, slipping away from the still-burning fire and toward the hotel. “Do you accept corporate expense cards? ...Lovely. I’ll be at the desk inside half an hour. Thank you.” He hangs up and snickers. It’s not like he abuses his SHIELD expense account, and it’s not like a night or maybe two at a good hotel is going to break SHIELD’s budget. After all, dammit they’re injured and exhausted and deserve to sleep and recover a bit in comfort.

“To answer your question I do have a company car, but asking to switch will get questions.” Phil says after a moment, driving two handed now. “Frankly, at this point? Our coworkers are going to know we’re involved, no way around it. But then again, they already thought we were so no damage done I guess.”

“If they know then just fuckin’ ask, man. If they ask why, just do that one-eyebrow raisin’ thing.” He’s seen junior agents shrivel at that look and back away slowly to do Phil’s bidding and he’s never not laughed at it—even when directed at himself. He’s definitely not ashamed that everyone knows. In fact, he knows a few people he’s going to rub it in the face of. “Oh, hey, about Fury’s desk…” he smirks wildly, “I’m gonna put a notch in the leg every time we do it there an’ see how long it takes for him ta find out.”

“Assuming he doesn’t find out and kill us both, this could be a very interesting little game.” Phil smirks to himself. Really this counts as the worst idea of all time, because Phil has worked for Fury for more than long enough to know that Fury is very particular about his security. But then Phil also makes a private game out of knowing Fury’s door codes and has for years (and Fury knows THAT, and so the game goes back and forth).

The drive isn’t long but Clint slips into a haze as he stares out the driver’s side window as he keeps his weight off his ass. He’s going to be walking funny for a while and he doesn’t care (beyond the point that squeezing in a round three is out of the question unless it’s with hands or mouth only). His eyes are unfocused and he’s tired enough that the lack of sharp visuals don’t bother him. He lets himself daydream about the shower he’s going to take as he lets Phil take him somewhere secure and safe.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After-mission care and a chance to finally get some rest awaits them both.

Soon enough they’re parked at the hotel, and he thinks back for a moment before opening the trunk and looking in before opening a bag. “It was Agent Monroe that did the car loadout right? Remind me to buy Monroe a gift card or something. He packed us both a change of clothes.” Probably Monroe was expecting them to get fucked up, yet again, but Phil will take this little piece of convenience to matter the reason.

“At the rate we’re goin’ through clothes maybe we should keep tha’ money,” Clint remarks as he climbs out of the vehicle, raising an eyebrow at him. He’s never gone through clothes this fast before and usually he was pretty rough on them (although Phil brought a whole new meaning to the word “rough”). He half-limps to Phil and grabs the other bag. A grimace bleeds onto his features for a moment before he pushes it back. “I really need a shower now. Wanna join me? Iunno if I can stand by m’self long enough to get properly washed.”

“Is that a trick question?” Phil wants to know, picking up the other bag and grinning when doing so reveals a first aid kit. “Brownie points, Monroe. Brownie points.” He shoves the first aid kit into the bag he’s carrying and closes up the car, leading the way inside. He checks into the hotel in record time, letting Clint hang back then coming back with two room keys, handing him one.

“Nah, jus’ wanted to hear ya say it.” Clint grins cheekily and slings the bag over his shoulder, following Phil’s lead (mostly because he needs to move slower).

“Got it for two nights.” He doesn’t bother giving a reason, pulling Clint onto the elevator with him and talking again once the door closes. “And I swear it, if they have work for me tomorrow night my reply might include some very choice words.”

Clint leans against Phil once in the elevator. He’s never been so grateful that he decided to stay as a freelancer and consultant allied with SHIELD instead of working for them. He can at least refuse what they ask him to do for personal reason and get some respect for it. “I hope so too,” and he means it completely. The longer they don’t need him, the longer Clint gets Phil to himself and he really likes the sound of that. He will openly admit it—inside his own head—that he wants to monopolize as much of Phil’s time as the older man will allow until he gets sick of him.

Phil smiles, warm and real, and cards into the room, holding the door for Clint then setting his bag aside. He let himself stagger once the door closed, pulling his shirt off and dropping it aside. “So. Shower, then I’ll get our wounds rewrapped, then report in. After that I say we sleep for twelve hours or something.” He rubbed his eyes with a chuckle. “Been a marvelous night overall though.”

Clint steadies him with a hand to his waist when Phil staggers. He can’t decide whether it’s cute or worrisome that he’s so tired and unbalanced after all that. He decides on both. “Yeah, shower.” He takes Phil’s hand and leads the way, dropping the bag as he goes.

The bathroom is pristine and white and he knows they’ll have to clean it up, not hotel staff. Lovely. He doesn’t even dare to move the towels closer until they’ve washed the blood and dirt off. “Why all th’ fuckin’ white, huh?” He mutters darkly. He turns to Phil and smiles, “I strip ya’n ya strip me?”

“Because it’s easy to bleach.” Phil replies dryly, gladly leaning on Clint for a bit of support. He’s to the bone tired, the physical exertion of the fight and the sex combined with the two orgasms has rendered him barely operable, multiple muscle groups having all the coherency of jello, or just burning still in protest. “And I like that idea.”

Clint may be tired but his hands are still in good working order. He palms up and over Phil’s chest slowly before popping buttons and moving clothing aside. It’s half sensual and half trying not to miss the buttons. It’s easier to keep track of them if he just doesn’t let his hands leave Phil’s body. “‘m very much likin’ the idea under practical applications…”

Phil purred and leaned into the attention for a few precious moments, eyes sliding to half mast and just taking in the feeling of Clint’s hands moving over him. He files that away for later, like so many things from the past day, then undoes his own belt before working on Clint’s shirt. “I could get used to this.”

Clint nods slowly, focused on Phil’s chest as he reveals it. He rests his head tiredly against Phil’s collarbone and softly kisses whatever he can reach. He pushes the shirt away and gently traces along Phil’s back and stomach, avoiding his injuries from memory before going to remove his pants. He only pauses when Phil tugs his shirt up high enough that he needs to move back for him to remove it.

Phil somehow manages to get the zippers of his boots undone and get out of them, and steps out of his socks at the same time as his pants, bare that quickly and getting Clint’s belt undone, pulling it free. “It’s not mutual if you’re not letting me return the favor very well.” He pecks one of Clint’s temples, leaning against him very lightly, one arm around his waist. The skin to skin contact is nice, he’s willing to bet money on the shower being utter bliss.

“Then,” Clint yawns, which makes Phil yawn and amuses them both. “hurry up, old man.” He grins cheekily but carefully steps out of his own boots, tied loosely enough that he can just toe them off. He balances easily as he hooks his toes into his socks to take those off as well. Once Phil pushes his pants down he steps in and presses himself flush against the older man and sighs. “Y’feel good.”

They’re both beyond dead on their feet, nursing minor injuries and completely burned out, but hell it doesn’t even really matter. Phil slides his arms around Clint and buries his face into his neck with a sigh, just enjoying the contact for a few long moments before pulling partly free and stepping for the shower, taking Clint with him. “So. I prefer hot showers. That bother you?”

Clint flinches slightly as Phil catches the edge of a bruise but he holds him there because as long as it’s from Phil, it’s a good hurt. He goes with Phil, grateful that he’s stabilizing him a little. “‘s long as I can ease into my lobster status, sure.”

“I said hot, not scalding.” Phil gets the water set up and steps in, pulling Clint in after then closing the curtain. Yeah, hotel showers are almost always close quarters but the never ending hot water is usually worth it in his book. There are already soap and shampoos waiting on one of the ledges and he gets the idea those are going to be abused to hell by the time they get clean, as it is the water coming off them makes it clear just how dirty they really were, and he winces a bit at the heat on his leg wound.

Clint slowly runs his hands over Phil. He wants to help get all the sweat and grime off before adding soap to it. (The added bonus of just getting to touch Phil with some other goal in mind is pretty nice too.) He slides his hands up Phil’s neck and starts to massage the base of his skull with skilled fingers.

Phil leans happily into the attention, bringing his hands up and massaging them through Clint’s hair, rinsing out sweat and dirt, and he had every intent to grabbing the shampoo to wash the other man’s hair but the massage at the base of his skull more or less shuts him off. He sighs and sags, letting some of his weight lean on Clint, forehead coming to rest on his shoulder. “You’re getting very good at finding my off switches.” He murmurs.

“I’m good at findin’ your on switches too,” he chuckles. He digs his fingers in a little harder, stroking in soothing circles along his skull and neck with his fingers. He gently squeezes the back of Phil’s neck. “Don’t move.” He grabs the shampoo and flicks the small bottle open. Pouring some into his hand, he shuffles them away from the water a little so the water is focused on Phil back only. He gently massages the soap into Phil’s hair.

“Very true.” Phil’s voice is a half-asleep drawl, letting himself get moved and leaning one shoulder against the shower wall to prop himself up, eyes mostly closed and groaning without shame at the scalp massage. “If you’re not careful I’m not to start to doze off while standing up.” The only reason this is a protest at all is if Phil falls in the shower, he’ll likely get a head trauma.

Clint smirks slightly and changes the angle of his fingertips until his nails scrape over his scalp. “How about that?” He purrs into Phil’s ear with a smirk. He doesn’t think he’d be able to hold the other man up dead weight at this point so anything that’ll keep them both on their feet is good.

Phil twitches, goosebumps rising in response to the scuffing of Clint’s fingernails. “Behave, you. I’m too far gone for any shenanigans right now.” He snickers and straightens u pto grab the shampoo, returning the favor, working it into Clint’s hair with both hands cheerfully.

“Jus’ tryin’ ta un-relax ya so I don’t have ta try ta catch ya, an’ fail.” He chuckles softly and hangs his head so Phil can easily scrub the dirt and sweat and everything else out of his hair.

“Apparently my ability to stay up a few days without sleep are gone.” Phil snickers, stepping back into the water to rinse his hair out. “Don’t get old, Clint, it’s annoying.”

“I think ‘s ‘cause we had mind blowin’ sex twice in about twice as many hours wi’no real restin’ in between.” Clint grins and helps Phil rinse the soap from his hair before swapping places himself.

Phil grins back, working his hands through Clint’s hair to make sure the soap’s out. “No complaints. None at all. Hoping it becomes a regular thing, actually. I like the idea of not having to burn out anymore after a job. That’s... a luxury I never really had.”

“The sex should definitely be a regular thing.” Clint agrees eagerly and leans in to steal a kiss. “Should start wearin’ a plug when I go to snipe a target so ya can just pop by after they’ve been offed and get ta business.”

Phil’s train of thought doesn’t so much go off the rails as plunge off a cliff and land in a flaming wreck in the gutter. He’s left gaping at Clint in silence as he tries, and fails, to properly grip what he was just told. He knows he likes the sound of that, a lot, but his body is weary and not willing to check back in with the lust spinning in his mind. “Dating you is going to be an education, isn’t it?” He asks mildly once his brain starts working.

Clint laughs at how long it takes for him to reply, the corners of his eyes crinkling with the force of how bright his smile is. He kisses Phil instead of answering. “Mm, yeah. Prob’ly.” He rests his forehead against the older man’s and enjoys the heat of the shower and the warmth of contentment inside him. “But it’ll be an education fer me too.”

Phil enjoys it when Clint laughs and gives him a real, full smile. It’s not a sight he sees too often and he memorizes it, tucks it away into his memory for later. “Well they do say you’re supposed to learn one thing a day.” He nuzzles into Clint, just standing in the water for a few precious moments, then the soaking wet bandage on his leg starts itching like hell. “...We should probably consider drying off and rewrapping our wounds sometime soon.” He eventually says, reluctant.

Clint bites back saying something really sappy like wanting to learn a new piece of his body every day. He steps out of the water and grabs the body wash to scrub the dirt and sweat and blood that still clings to him away. “Yeah, soon.”

Phil snickers, snagging the body wash when he can and also scrubbing off the grime. Toward the end he gives up and tears off the bandage on his leg, wincing only because he loses some leg hair in the process and shit that stings. “Well that’s going to be an interesting scar.” He sighs at it. Well at least it didn’t nick his tattoo.

Clint carefully washes his neck, the skin tender from the hickeys and bruising from the baseball bat. He steps under the spray again and the bubbles wash from his body. He carefully smooths his hand over his arms and chest to make sure the bubbles go away before scratching at the back of his neck, and over the QR code tattoo there.

Phil watched Clint’s hands and ended up stepping up behind him, laying a gentle peck over the QR tattoo. He’d been careful to run the bruises around it, not over it. Stepping in also put him back into the water and he didn’t bother checking to see of the soap was gone, just doing a full-body skin shiver to be certain.

Clint hums softly at the kiss, a smile spreading over his face. He turns and chases away suds with his hands, stroking over Phil slowly. “Hey,” he steals a quick kiss, “did I ever tell ya what tha’ QR says?”

“No, actually.” Phil wraps his arms around Clint, smiling softly. “I’ve wondered but I didn’t think it was my right to ask.” He pauses. “I never got around to explaining my leg tattoo either.”

“Been wonderin’ ‘bout that one fer ages.” He bites his lip for a moment before reaching behind him and turning the water off. “C’mon, I bandage ya an’ ya bandage me’n we’ll swap tattoo stories.” He grabs a towel and smirks as he wraps it around Phil’s waist for him.

Phil nods agreeably, stepping out of the shower and passing Clint a towel before grabbing a second one for himself. Old habit means he’s dry in a few minutes flat, retrieving the first aid kit from one of the bags and finding that it is indeed properly stocked up. “Agent Monroe is an overachiever. You’re the worse off, so you first I suppose.”

“Does tha’ mean I share my story while you check my stitches?” Clint gently pats himself off before scrubbing at his hair one handed. He probably needs to shave soon too. He wraps his towel around his waist and finger combs his hair with one hand while tugging the tapes off of his side to show Phil his worst wound.

Phil leaned to study the wound over his side then grabbed one of the clean washcloths, patting it dry and the area around it so the tape will stick. “If you like.” He still can’t believe that they managed to get it on in a warehouse while Clint ignored a knife wound. Okay, let’s be honest, he still can’t believe they’re actually screwing. And are doing so exclusively. Phil’s life is now about a thousand percent better.

Clint gazes up at the ceiling, bracing his arms on the counter. He studies the smooth surface as hands gently prod at his wound. He must be under some fantastic painkillers because it doesn’t hurt too much at the moment. “Property of Phillip J Coulson.” He says suddenly. “Tha’s what the QR code says.” It had started as a joke when he’d only had a crush years ago, but quickly became a declaration of intent. He stopped fucking around (excluding when it was for a job) roughly nine years ago because Phil was the one he’d wanted and no one else.

Phil’s hands go still for a moment, because he’s thinking back, remembering how long he’s seen the tattoo on Clint. He has to go back a lot of years before he can find a memory of Clint without it. “Why didn’t you tell me?” He finally asks, sounding as stunned as he feels, smoothing some ointment over the wound then picking up some gauze, working on the actual bandage.

Clint shrugs with the shoulder opposite his wound. “Didn’t think ya’d be interested. Ya din’t show any interest when I flirted—‘cept tha’ one time at tha’ bar—so I took the hint. Thought it was yer way of lettin’ me down easy.” He rubs over his face with a sigh. “But I couldn’t stop feelin’ like…” he waves helplessly, “this. So I tried again after years of... anyway. We wound up naked on yer couch.”

Phil sighed, neatly securing the bandage over the wound, trying to make sure it’s done in such a way the tape won’t pull too hard when Clint moves around. “I was never sure if you were being serious, honestly. More fool me, I suppose.” He looks up at him, brows drawn together. “Too busy being professional to actually pay attention to the shit that really matters. I’m sorry.”

Clint catches Phil’s chin and gently tugs him up into a kiss. “None o’ that.” He curls his other hand around the back of Phil’s neck and keeps stealing kisses. “Ya din’t know. I wouldn’t blame ya for that. Ever. We’re just gonna have ta try ta catch up on time missed.” He brushes his lips over Phil’s once more. “My turn. Jus’ your leg, yeah?”

Phil blushes a bit and returns the kisses, light and quick, standing to show the leg wound. “Yes, just the leg. It’s not bad, honestly, mostly annoying.” He pauses, looking at his leg tattoo, already fading again and needing new ink. “Telling you will be easier now, actually, since you figured out I’m Kingfisher.” He considered his words. “This is a tribute tattoo for Quinn. My handler. The dates are the day I became Quinn’s Operative and the day Quinn died. It was so stupid, he was on a roof spotting and the building he was in collapsed. He didn’t get out, I never found the body. ...I was off duty for two months afterwards. Eventually declined returning to duty as an Operative and promoted up. Got this.” He rattles his fingers above the Phoenix on his leg. “For him. Felt like I had to, almost.”

Clint kneels slowly in front of Phil and inspects his leg wound before cleaning it and gently applying a salve. He looks at the tattoo when Phil talks about it, reaching out to trace the edges. After a bandage is secured, Clint cups Phil’s calf and raises his leg a little. He rests Phil’s foot atop his knee and leans down to kiss over the inked bird softly. His lips drag up along the inside of his leg and up to his mid-thigh. “Should get one for ya bein’ my handler.”

Phil lets Clint move him, letting out a soft sigh at the kiss then bursting into laughter at the lip brush. “Sorry... sorry... ticklish. Shameful, I know. Ahem.” He shakes off. “Well I’m certainly not going to argue, it’s your body after all but don’t feel like you have to. But if you get one for me, I think I’d have to return the favor.”

Clint smirks up at Phil and places another tickling kiss along his thigh before setting his foot back down and standing carefully. He likes the idea. He’d have to take his time and think of something perfect for Phil and where he’d put it. “I’d like tha’.”

“Custom matching designs perhaps.” Phil leans forward enough to steal a quick kiss then steps out of the bathroom, rummaging in one of the bags and actually finding toothpaste and two toothbrushes. He makes a mental note to gift Agent Monroe with some quality liquor by way of thank you, and takes said products to the bathroom. “I’m going to turn the bed down. I’m all for sleeping as long as humanly possible.”

Clint’s ears redden at the thought of matching designs. Matching tattoos certainly scream “we’re a couple” as tattoos shout “forever” and that’s… He wants it, of course he does. This is the first normal, healthy relationship he’s ever had—though he hasn’t had many to compare it to. He’s wanted this for years. But how is he to know that Phil is just as dedicated?

He carefully rebandages his bicep as Phil gets the bed ready. He dries his hair off a little more so he doesn’t leave wet marks on the pillow. He plans on enjoying naked cuddling with Phil as long as he can manage.

Phil sits heavily on the edge of the bed, rubbing his eyes and ditching the towels to the floor. He’s already checked the room locks and made sure the do-not-disturb notice is up. Now it’s just staying up for a few more minutes for Clint to wander in. Yeah, who’s he kidding. By the time Clint comes in, only one of the lamps is left on and Phil is dead to the world on one half the bed, rolled facing the other side with an arm stretched out waiting, blankets pulled to his waist.

Clint pads out into the bedroom softly and smiles at the sight. He turns off the light and crawls into the bed and Phil’s arms. Gently rearranging them both, he settles happily and steals a kiss before falling asleep himself.

**Author's Note:**

> For those who are curious, the current date (and their anniversary) is October 11, 2004.


End file.
